It was one thing I so loved about our relationship; I hadnt even had to ask, and she knew.
Chapter 7
I was hot. I was sticky. And I was nearly suicidal by the time I unlocked the front door to the house. Florida summers, even early on in the season, are not the time to be without air conditioning. Especially not in the car. Sure, youve got the air coming in from any open windows, but theres only so much that can do. The heat of the pavement reflected back up into the already boiling air, when combined with the small convection oven created by the interior of a car, pretty much negates the entire theory of fresh air.
The air-conditioned interior of the house felt so good I almost cried. I really, really needed to get the car fixed. Before I turned into an overheated, hysterical mess.
The air-conditioned interior of the house felt so good I almost cried. I really, really needed to get the car fixed. Before I turned into an overheated, hysterical mess.
I threw my purse onto the chair in the living room, kicked off my sandals, and squished down the hall toward the bathroom. I was desperate to wash my face and get some of the grime off, just so I could feel human again. My shirt was stuck to my back and my jeans felt heavy enough to slide right off my hips.
Hi, honey, Im home, I called out into the empty house. It had become almost ritual. Some people kissed the door frame when they walked through the door, I called out greetings to the imaginary man who lived in the house with me. Not that I really thought he was there, mind you. But the overall presence of guy was undeniable, even though said guy wasnt physically there.
Somehow, it made the whole idea of living in someone elses house a little less strange. I imagined all sorts of scenarios: maybe he was just up at the corner store, or at work, or off doing manly man things with his buddieswherever he was, and I allowed myself to imagine that he was going to be back soon. And that we were, in fact, quite close, instead of complete strangers. I wasnt even sure what he looked like, because even after two months of living in his house, I still had yet to run across a photo of Major Neil Epstein.
I pictured someone tall, handsome, rugged. And athletic, judging by all the running medals looped over the corner of the mirror on his bedroom dresser. He was sensitive, caring, educated without ever being aloof, but still a total mans man.
He was The Perfect Guy.
At least, in my head he was.
I had plenty of time to imagine what Neil was like as I lay in his bed at night, as I sat at his dinner table eating my cereal every morning, as I brushed my teeth in his bathroom.
It was how I dealt.
That, and Id begun to write him letters that I never sent. Not that I could have sent them, even if I wanted to. I had no address for him, not even an e-mail address.
Every night, before I went to sleep, I wrote him a letter in a notebook that I kept by the bed. Call it journaling, Anne Frank style. Her journal was written to an imaginary person she called Kitty, mine was written to a real person named Neil.
It helped me feel more connected to another person, to this man whose home I was living in.
I wrote to Neil about my day, about what I was feeling, about anything going on with the house.
I thought of it as a kind of therapy, because while I was telling Neil about myself, I was also learning things about myself. Things that I hadnt ever really taken time to think about. Things that I was sometimes surprised to realize. Most importantly, though, I had stopped focusing so much energy on all the things Paul and I would never have the chance to do.
I was becoming my own person again, and I was moving past that place where Id been the sad woman whose fiancé was dead.
I was more than that.
And I was determined to be more than that.
Id even started running every morning again.
How could I not, with all those medals mocking me whenever I looked in the bedroom mirror? Fortunately for me, Neils house was in an area that was conducive to running.
I planned on hitting one of the local races soon, but I wanted to get a little faster before I ventured that far. I didnt want to make a fool of myself or besmirch my good name in the running community. Not that I was sure they would even remember me, so long had it been since Id actually been to a race.
A harsh, unflattering glow flooded the bathroom when I flicked the light switch, granting me the most ungracious welcome as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I turned away quickly, deciding that merely washing the sweat off my face wouldnt cut it.
I peeled off my clothes, throwing them into a damp heap in the corner. That was something else that had taken some getting used tousing someone elses shower. Hotel showers are strange enough, simply because they arent yours. Someone elses shower is strange because not only is it not yours, its someone elses. Its a very odd thing to pull back the curtain and see a half-empty bottle of mens body wash and various shampoos that have been left behind.
When Id gotten into the house, one of the first things Id done was scrub the tub and shower walls with a very potent, very abrasive cleanser. It wasnt quite strong enough to burn all of my nose hairs, but it was pretty close. Once the shower was sufficiently scrubbed and sparkling, I stocked it with my own shampoos and conditioners and body wash.
But I also put his back.
Somehow, I didnt feel right totally displacing Neils things. This was still his house, and I was just a visitor here. Plus it kept me from feeling so alone. Its amazing, isnt it, the mind games you can play with yourself?
Once Id showered, I wrapped up in one of the big, fluffy towels from the stack in the hall linen closet. I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom to find some clothes, thinking distractedly about how to blow up my poor excuse for a car.
Hmmmm. Wonder if any of Neils giant bullets would work? Or maybe he had some explosives somewhere in the house
Probably he kept them in the same place that hed stashed all the pictures of himself.
I found that terribly frustrating. Much as I hated having my picture taken myself, I should have given the guy a little more slack. But how in the world does somebody manage to not have a single picture of himself somewhere in his house?
Even I had a couple of snapshots that included my face floating somewhere in the sea of faces grouped together for a photo.
Even I, who was generally a reluctant party to any moment involving a camera that I wasnt personally holding and controlling.
Squish.
I took another step further into the bedroom.
Squish.
What the?
I took more deliberate steps through the room, the carpet making squishing and sucking noises under my bare feet with each movement.
Okay, now I was getting really worried. I knew there was a water heater in a small closet-like space a few feet from the bed, and it seemed like the only logical explanation for all of this water.
Oh, dear God, dont let it be the water heater, please dont let it be the water heater, I prayed silently as I approached the door.
I knew, in all reality, that nothing would change between that particular second and the instant my fingers closed around the knob; but some small part of me was still hoping for a miracle.
A very small, very delusional part.
I opened the door and found an absolute mess in the small closet. I couldnt tell exactly where it was coming from on the thing, but the water heater was definitely leaking.
Call me ignorant, but at that particular moment, I had no idea what to do. This wasnt the kind of thing that was supposed to happen when you were staying in someone elses house. This was the kind of thing that was only supposed to happen to people with their own houses, with husbands there to fix the damn thing. Or husbands there to act like they knew what the hell they were looking at and then call the plumber, claiming to be too busy to fix the damn thing themselves.
My mind was racing, my heart was going at a rate rapid enough to rival a hummingbirds wings, and I wanted to throw up. Had I done something that made this thing burst or leak or whatever it was doing that it obviously wasnt supposed to be doing?
I felt sick and guilty and panicked.
Neil was going to blame me.
I dont know where the thought came from, but all of a sudden it was there. And, for only being a thought, it seemed as loud as if someone had shouted it into the room.
Neil was going to blame me.
Of course he would. I was the one here, watching his house, and Id let this happen.
Granted, I hadnt actually been present, but it had still happened on my watch. And I had absolutely no idea of what I should do.
I needed to call Ray. It seemed logical enough to me. At least he might know what to do, which was definitely a step up from standing there, staring at the thing like a helpless idiot. My feet were almost rooted to the floor, sunken into the spongy carpet, which seemed to have absorbed enough water to fill a bathtub.
Oh, God, the carpet! What was I going to do about the carpet?
Somehow, the realization that I was going to have to deal not only with a defunct water heater, but flooded carpeting, as well, sent me over the edge.
Not just a little over the edge, either.
A lot over the edge.
I turned away from the water heater and barely made it two steps before I threw up. Right there, all over the ruined carpet.
Followed immediately by crying, of course.
Naturally. Isnt that what one does?
I sat down in the middle of the room, freshly showered and wrapped in a towel, and cried until I had nothing left to cry.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, I was being awakened by the sound of the doorbell being rung. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly.
Whoever was out there was either determined to be let in or determined to lose an index finger and have it shoved up their
I felt as though I had a hangover.
My head was pounding, my eyes were swollen, and I was completely disoriented. The room was dark now that the sun had gone down, and the open windows that had previously been a source of natural light were now letting in only the soft glow of streetlights.